Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T he seven ships weighed anchor as close as they could to the shore near Dundalk and the mouth of the Castletown River, but the tide had gone out, leaving miles of silty mess along the shoreline. But it was passable, meaning they took the boats as close as they could before lowering the ramps into water that was about hip-high.

Men and horses began disembarking, wading through the cold sea water until they found their footing on the sandy silt. Cort had ridden Vulcan off the ship and the horse was quite fond of the water, so he found himself wrestling with an animal that wanted to splash around, nearly trampling the men he came close to. They found themselves covered with sandy seawater as the enormous blond warhorse splashed and jumped his way onto the sandy shore.

In spite of the rough ride, Cort found the whole thing humorous, even more so when Vulcan wanted to run back into the surf. But he managed to direct the excited animal onto land, to a point where the men were gathering. Between him and Trenton, they were able to get the de Russe army onto the shore, while Boden and Gage and William directed the Wellesbourne and Shrewsbury armies. Bringing up the rear was Damon and his two knights, and all of the armies finally converged to gather on the shoreline and established a beachhead.

Black Cove was a mere three miles to the south, the small but heavily-fortified tower house that the rebels had captured months before. But Denys didn't want any manpower wasted on Black Cove, at least not yet. He wanted all military efforts focused on Mount Wrath first, so their destination was about seven miles to the west. He wanted his flagship castle returned to him before he would consider reclaiming the smaller outpost.

It was sunset, with the western sky turning shades of bright pink and red, partially covered by a heavy bank of clouds that was rolling in from the sea. The beach was organized chaos as almost three thousand men settled in for the evening, pitching tents and doling out provisions as the quartermasters began to feed them. With the de Russe men settled for the most part, Cort and Trenton left Boden in command and headed out to find Dillon and Brend.

The armies were blending into each other as the beachhead was set up and Cort had to keep Vulcan away from the water, wrestling with the horse as they made their way to the far western end of the armies where de Winter had set up camp.

The first thing Cort noticed was that Dera was missing. He didn't see her red head anywhere among the sea of men, which both confused and concerned him. He finally came across Brend as the man was directing several de Winter soldiers to set up a large tent.

"Brend!" he called out. "Where is Dillon?"

Brend turned towards him, smiling wearily. Any trouble between them from the days back in Narborough had been brief and was long gone. They were back to being great friends again.

"Trying to convince my sister to come off the ship," he said. "She has been ill the past few days and swears she cannot leave her bed. How did you fare?"

Cort's head was turned in the direction of the Stella Maris , very close to shore. "Nothing of note," he said, preoccupied with the thought that Dera was ill. "Although Boden was complaining he will feel woozy for the next two days. I will go and see if I can help Dillon."

Leaving Trenton with Brend, Cort gave Vulcan his head and the horse bolted out into the saltwater, running gleefully in knee-deep water. The closer he drew to the Stella Maris , the more he could see that there were still a few men on her. Some were using the rope ladder over the side to disembark, while a few others were using the ramp from amidships. As Cort approached, he could see Dillon coming down the ramp leading his warhorse.

"Brend said you cannot convince Dera to disembark," he called out as he came near. "Where is she?"

Dillon threw a thumb over his shoulder. "She is curled up in the bow," he said, clearly annoyed. "I was going to find Brend and tell him to remove his sister. I am finished trying to convince her."

Cort laughed softly. "I will do it," he said. "Go find Brend and my brother. The last I saw them, they were with the de Winter men."

Dillon swung himself onto the back of his big brown stud. "I will," he said. "Get Dera off the ship and take her into the village. There is a small tavern near the shore called the Maid of the Mist. Dera has been sick for three days and I do not think she has eaten much, so a good bed that is not moving and a decent meal might help her."

Something in the way Dillon said it caught his attention. Once most of the armies had been assembled and they departed Narborough, it had taken them a little over two weeks to journey to Blackpool and, in that time, Cort had ridden with Dera every day. He became her shadow. There hadn't been any meaningful glances, or any indications that there might be something between them, and the journey itself had been uneventful.

But Cort knew that Dillon wasn't stupid. He knew the man must have at least suspected there was something brewing between Dera and Cort, but he never said a word. Still, suggestions that he take her to a tavern– just the two of them– led him to believe that Dillon was on to their little charade.

In fact, as he looked at the man now, he could see the awareness in Dillon's face. There was a twinkle of mirth about it, as if he knew their secret. But Cort wasn't prepared to say anything, and certainly not before speaking to Brend about it, so he simply nodded his head.

"Very well," he said. "But you should know that I have decided something."

"What is that?"

"When we return from Ireland, I am going to personally convince your mother that the fishmonger's daughter would make an excellent wife for you," he said. "You deserve to be happy when this is over with, Dil. We all do."

The moment turned strangely emotional. Dillon looked at him in surprise before breaking down into soft laughter.

"If anyone can convince my mother of such a thing, it is you," he said. "She never could resist you."

"No woman can."

Dillon glanced back at the ship before digging his heels into the side of his horse.

"So I see."

The implication was obvious. Off he charged towards the beach, leaving Cort with a smile on his face. Dillon had been sympathetic to his sister and Brend's romance, and he himself was facing opposition with his love for the fishmonger's daughter. He understood what it was to experience a forbidden love. But given how Cort had behaved towards Dera since leaving Narborough, perhaps it was no great secret that he was fond of her, after all.

Leaving Vulcan in water up to his chest, tethered to the rope ladder that was pitched over the side of the Stella Maris , Cort entered on the ramp, making his way to the deck below where men and animals had been stored.

It was also where they'd slept, and it smelled of urine and smoke from the cooking fire in the center of the ship. He had to bend over as he made his way to the bow, where there were barrels of fresh water and other supplies, being moved around by the sailors. There was a canvas curtain at the very tip of the deck and he pulled it back, immediately spying Dera as she lay on her side on a pallet.

She looked terrible. Pale, her red hair stringy and dirty, she looked as if it had been a very rough crossing for her. But to him, she'd never looked more beautiful.

"Dera?" he said softly. "Sweetheart, look at me."

Dera's eyes flew open and she looked up in shock. "Cort," she gasped. "What are you doing here?"

He smiled. "I've come to take you away," he said. "Dillon said you would not come, but I am here to change your mind. I will carry you and tend you until you feel better. Please come with me."

She didn't even hesitate. She nodded, lifting her head up, trying to sit up but clearly ill and weakened. Cort swooped down, picking her up even as she struggled. She clung to him, letting his warmth and strength feed her weary spirit.

"I am so glad to see you," she murmured, her face in the side of his neck. "Are you well after the crossing?"

He held her tightly. "I am well."

"You did not suffer?"

"I did not. But I missed you terribly."

The words were like food for her soul; he felt her sigh contentedly. "And I missed you," she whispered. Then, she lifted her head, looking over towards her pallet. "Please don't forget my satchel."

He could see it next to her, a rather large bag that she and Arabella had stuffed full of clothing and other things. He bent over to grasp it, shifting her weight so he could sling the handles of the satchel over his arm. Hunched over, and carrying precious cargo, he made his way out of the ship's hold.

A brisk breeze was blowing off the sea as he took her down the ramp to where Vulcan was still tethered, still stomping in the water. He lifted her up onto the horse and handed her the satchel before leaping on behind her. With Vulcan still splashing madly, he directed the horse back the way he'd come.

Dera held on to his arms tightly as they made their way up onto the shore. Cort kissed her on the side of her head.

"I will find you a solid bed and a good meal," he murmured in her ear. "I am sorry you have been so miserable."

She groaned softly, sinking back against him. "I don't know why," she said. "I have made this crossing before and I was fine. Three days ago, I began feeling terrible and it has not gone away."

"It will now that we've reached land," he assured her. "Half of the men on my ship were also ill. Sometimes it just happens."

She groaned miserably, holding tight as he took the horse into the small village that was to the west of the gathering armies. He could see the cooking fires starting up in the camp, the smoke beginning to linger in the dusk. Cort kept an eye out for the tavern Dillon had indicated and found it right at the edge of the village, a rather large, one-storied building that was made from stone. It had a sod roof, heavily-shuttered windows, and behind it was a small stable yard.

Directing Vulcan into the yard, he found a small boy there who was more than willing to take the horse and bed him down. Cort dismounted, pulling Dera off behind him, and once the boy took the reins, Vulcan tried to take the boy for a ride of his own. He dragged the child all over the stable yard until Cort whistled loudly and the horse came to a halt.

It was really rather dastardly of the beast, who was jerking the child all over the place like a plaything. Cort shook his head in disapproval at the animal, taking the reins himself and leading him into the stable where the boy indicated a clean stall. Giving the lad a few coins, he left the naughty horse tied up and took Dera by the arm, leading her into the rear of the tavern.

The kitchen was in the yard behind the tavern and as they passed through, they could see that it was a mass of activity. There were at least two big bread ovens, shaped like a beehive, plus half of a pig roasting over an open pit. There were two more cooking fires, each with great iron pots hanging over them, bubbling furiously.

As Cort pulled Dera through the yard, he couldn't help but notice she couldn't walk a straight line. She was walking like she was drunk. He took a firm hold of her as they entered the establishment, a low-ceilinged common room that saw Cort nearly hitting his head at least twice. There were wenches moving about, serving patrons, and the room was about half-full. Cort stopped one of the women as she passed by him.

"We require a room for the night," he said in a perfect Irish accent. "I'll pay well for it."

Dera looked at him in amazement with his change of accent as the wench directed him to a man who was pouring ale at one of the tables. With Dera still in-hand, Cort approached the man and repeated his needs. When he produced several silver coins, the man was more than eager to direct them to a room.

In fact, the tavern had four rooms, all of them opening up into the common room, so it was simply a matter of walking to one of the doors and opening it. Beyond was a cold, dark chamber with a bed that could fit one person comfortably, two uncomfortably. Cort demanded a fire, a hot bath, and food in that perfect Irish accent again. He pulled Dera into the chamber as the man dashed away.

Once inside the room, he shut the door quietly and bolted it. He then set her satchel on the ground near the door and faced her.

"You are still weaving around like you are on the ocean," he told her. "Sit down on that bed before you fall down."

Dera did, sighing wearily as she did so. But she was also looking at him curiously.

"Why did you speak with an Irish accent?" she asked.

"Because I did not wish to sound like a Béarla ," he said, watching her grin as he used her term for the English. "I am under no illusions that I do not look like one, but at least if I sound Irish, it might confuse anyone listening. It is difficult to know if there are friends or foes in that common room and I do not wish to tempt fate with you around."

Dera laughed softly. "Your secret is safe with me."

"Thank you," he said. He began to fumble with his breastplate "Do you mind helping me with this? If I try to take it off myself, it will take all night."

Dera stood up, weaving her way over to him and unbuckling the straps he was pointing to. He was without the armor on his legs and only clad from the waist up, but it was enough to make him appear absolutely enormous. Dera had seen him in full regalia since departing Narborough those weeks ago, and what she saw now had him virtually half-dressed.

Knights in this day and age were fearsome creatures that were covered with plate armor from head to toe. She'd seen her brother suited up, and now Cort, but the detail of what the men wore was truly something to behold. One piece was dependent upon another as they were all fitted together like a big puzzle, so to see him only half-clad was odd. She went around behind him to unbuckle the straps that held the plate on his arms in place. Everything was either buckled or tied with leather strips.

"How is it you are not fully armored?" she asked. "You are only wearing half of what you normally wear."

He held his arms out as she untied the leather ties that held the forearm plate to his arm. There was a special tunic underneath with ties sewn into it, a special garment that all knights wore to keep their armor in place.

"I only put on half of it this morning, so my upper body was protected in case we docked in Dundalk and the arrows started to fly for some reason," he said. "When Brend sent me to find you, I simply hadn't the chance to put everything else on. If you notice, I do not even have my possessions with me."

"Where are they?"

"With my brothers," he said. "I will collect everything tomorrow when we rendezvous with the army."

That made sense to her. Dera pulled pieces of the elaborate armor off, setting it carefully to the ground and nearly falling over when she did so. Her balance was still off.

"Sit down," Cort told her quietly, grinning when she obeyed and held on to the bed. "Lay down if you wish. Let your head settle."

Dera lay back on the bed which, strangely enough, stopped the rocking. She felt much better that way.

"I hope this goes away soon," she said. "I do not wish to be a burden."

He finished pulling the rest of his armor off, setting it down with the rest of it. He also pulled off the special tunic, revealing a lightweight doublet beneath. It was padded, meant to offset some of the chaffing that the armor could bring, but it only covered his torso. His big, bulging arms were quite evident.

"You are not a burden," he said. "In fact, as odd as it may sound, I am glad you came with us."

"Why is that odd?"

He shrugged. "Because we are facing certain battle," he said. "I do not advocate women attending battle and certainly not you, but I have a feeling you will handle yourself admirably. More than that, I simply couldn't stomach being separated from you."

Dera looked up at him. Big, tall, strong, and wildly handsome Cort, a man who held her heart as surely as the sky held the sun and the moon. Her heart simply didn't belong to her any longer. It wasn't hers to give or take back. Always and forever, it would belong to Cort, and that was not a distressing thought in the least.

"It just occurred to me that this is the first time we have been alone since leaving Narborough," she said. "On the journey through England to Blackpool, Brend mostly attended to me. You were always busy with your duties, or with Dillon or your brothers. I only saw you when we would travel during the day but, even then, you would not speak to me. We did not speak at all. It was a lonely way to travel."

Cort nodded his head regretfully. "I know, but it was necessary," he said. "You understand that I was not ignoring you, don't you?"

She nodded. "Of course," she said. "I'm sorry– I did not mean to make it sound like I was complaining. I wasn't, truly. I simply meant that it was lonely not to be able to talk to you."

Cort opened his mouth to reply but there was a knock on the door. Opening it, he stood back as servants entered the chamber, carrying a big copper pot, buckets of hot water, food, and other things.

While one man started a fire in the hearth, another set the copper pot down and put a three-legged stool in the middle of it. Buckets of hot water were poured into the pot and more buckets were summoned. The pot was filled about half-full just about the time the fire in the hearth finally began blazing. Food was set out on the small table in the chamber, but Cort told them it was not enough, so someone scurried away to bring more.

There was quite a bit of activity in the chamber until the fire was blazing, the pot was filled, and more food was brought. When Cort was satisfied that he had everything he wanted, he ordered the servants from the chamber and shut the door behind them, throwing the bolt.

By this time, Dera was sitting up, eyeing the bath more than she was eyeing the food. A lovely, luscious, wonderful hot bath. As Cort went to the table to inspect everything that had been brought, Dera began stripping off her clothing. Ties were loosened and she kicked her shoes off. Just about the time she went to lift the heavy woolen dress over her head, she realized that she probably shouldn't do so freely with Cort in the chamber. She looked sheepishly at the man.

"Will you please face away so that I may bathe without an audience?" she asked.

He made a face, suggesting he didn't like that request, but dutifully switched sides of the table so his back was to her.

"You have taken all of the joy out of my life," he said unhappily.

Dera fought off a grin as she pulled the garment over her head. "You will survive," she said. "And do not eat all of the food. I am hungry, I think."

He snorted. "That is your punishment for not letting me watch," he said. "I am going to eat everything now."

She laughed softly. "Having a temper tantrum, are you, lad?"

"Something like that."

She continued to chuckle as she went to her satchel, untying the fastens and pulling the bag open. There was a bar of soap inside, carefully wrapped, along with a comb, a horsehair brush, and a few other things. She pulled out a clean sleeping shift, one that had been tightly rolled up by Arabella. Pulling the dirty shift over her head, she climbed into the tub, hissing because the water was so hot.

But it felt wonderful.

"Sweet Mary," she groaned, taking a moment to simply enjoy the heat. "God bless you for having them bring me a bath, Cort. You could not have done better."

"You are welcome. Even if I cannot watch."

His mouth was full as he spoke and, grinning, Dera began splashing water all over herself. In fact, she removed the stool and sat on the bottom of the pot, the water up to her breasts as she sat cross-legged. Dunking her head to get her hair wet, she pulled forth the bar of hard white Castile soap and began to scrub.

"Where are we going tomorrow?" she asked, her eyes closed as she scrubbed her hair and face.

Cort was deep into his pork and beans. "More than likely Mount Wrath," he said, mouth full. "That is where you will be asked to liaise with the rebels, I suspect, though I've not heard that directly. But we will want to open communication with them."

Eyes still closed, Dera continued to scrub. "I want to know where my mother and surviving brothers are."

"I know."

"I also want to know where my father and brother are buried."

"We shall find out, I promise," he said. "Were you close to your father?"

"I was closer to my mother. I think my father was disappointed that I was not born a male child."

"But he has four sons."

"He wanted five."

"I am glad he did not have five."

Dera smiled at his compliment as she splashed water on her face, dunking her hair again to rinse the hard Castile soap out of it. Strangely enough, as long as she kept her eyes shut, she didn't feel a rocking motion, so she was able to wash her face and hair that way. Once her head was all rinsed, she wiped the water from her eyes and opened them.

"Cort," she said. "I have been thinking about the first contact with my Irish brethren."

"And?"

She lathered up the horsehair brush, thinking on how to approach the subject. It was something she had been thinking about since they'd departed Narborough, but now that they were in Ireland, she could no longer refrain from speaking up.

It was important to her.

"I think it will be helpful if you understand their way of thinking," she said. "There is a village at Lisnadara that is the heart of the rebellion in this area and I would like to take you there. I want to introduce you to the priest who preaches a free Ireland and inspires the Irish with his sermons."

Cort pondered that as he took a big gulp of wine. "Are you telling me that a priest is rousing the people to insurrection?"

She scrubbed her arms, over and under. "Not really," she said. "He does not advocate violence or killing. He does not advocate hatred of the English. That is why I want you to come with me and meet him. I think he could give you some perspective on how the Irish view their land."

He set his cup down. "Dera, I do not need to speak with a priest to understand my enemy," he said. "Although I appreciate the suggestion, it would be a waste of time."

"Am I a waste of time?"

"Of course not, but…"

"Then, please, say you'll come with me," she begged softly, cutting him off. "You will learn something and it will help with the negotiations. Isn't it important to understand your adversary?"

She had a point, and a very astute one. He sighed heavily, daring to turn around to see that she was sitting in the big copper pot, facing away from him. As he watched, she tied her long, wet hair up into a knot at the top of her head to keep it out of the way. Illuminated by the fire as she was, with her graceful swan-like neck and delicate shoulders, he swore that he'd never seen anything so beautiful. He knew he should probably turn back around, but he couldn't seem to do it.

"If you are trying to recruit me for your cause, it will not work," he finally said. "I will never agree with or understand the Irish revolt."

As he watched, Dera soaped up her neck. "It is not my intention to convert you," she said. "But I would like you to at least understand. That is all I'm asking, Cort. It will more than likely help you understand me better, as well."

He took another heavy drink of wine, draining the cup, as he watched her bathe in the firelight.

"I understand you," he said. "I know everything I want to know about you."

"Then you know I will not give up until you do this for me."

He snorted. "Nagging already, just like a good fishwife."

"Nay, not a fishwife. Just a wife. Yours, by God's grace, someday."

He poured himself more wine, feeling the warmth begin to flow through his veins. "We will find a way. Do not lose faith so soon."

"If you remained here in Ireland, we could be married. It is not illegal here."

He shook his head. "Nay, it is not, but Ireland is a wild place. I do not wish to raise my sons here. They would be enemies in the land of their birth."

Dera conceded the point. "Then France? With Brend and Bella?"

"Would that disappoint you?"

She shook her head. "I would go to the moon with you if it meant we could be together," she said. "But… but I worry, Cort. I have been thinking about this since our time together in Narborough's vault. You have so very much to lose with all of this and I have absolutely nothing to lose. Can you really be happy giving up everything you have worked for? Your service for the king, your family?"

The truth was that those thoughts had crossed Cort's mind, too. He tried not to give them any great weight, but it was difficult not to. He'd always been a man who did what he wanted, when he wanted, and accomplished anything he'd ever attempted. But in the case of an Irish bride, his luck might run out.

And he would never get the Collingbourne barony.

"It is serious, no doubt," he finally said. "When Henry asked me to seduce you and learn all of Ireland's deep secrets, he promised me the Collingbourne barony should I succeed. Given that I am a third son, and both of my older brothers are titled, the lure of lands and title mean something to me. I have worked hard for them. But I find it difficult to believe I cannot still have the barony and you also."

"But how?"

He shrugged. "I am not sure," he said. "Mayhap I will train you to have a French accent and tell Henry you are a French orphan. He's never seen you, so how is he to know who you really are?"

She turned to look at him, her breasts just below the waterline. When she realized that he was sitting there watching her, and probably had been for some time, it did not trouble her. It seemed oddly natural. She leaned forward, her chin against the side of the pot.

"I cannot be any less than what I am," she said. "I am not ashamed of being Irish."

"It is not a matter of shame," he said. "It is a matter of presenting you as a bride I am legally allowed to wed."

She thought on that. "I will consider it," she said, "if you will come with me to visit the priest of Lisnadara. Please, Cort. It is important to me."

He eyed her, seeing that she wasn't beyond bargaining with him. It mildly annoyed him, but it also impressed him. As always, she was a woman of great passion and conviction. He drained his cup, slamming it back on the table.

"I will consider it," he said, "if you will trade places with me and let me get into the bath."

"I would be happy to."

"I want you to help me bathe."

He had the benefit of two big cups of wine in his system, warming his veins, while visions of Dera's naked body warmed his loins. Dera eyed him, sitting back in the pot so that the tops of her breasts were visible above the water. The waterline was right at her nipples and Cort had a tantalizing glimpse of them.

"I am a maiden, Cort," she said, a hint of scolding. "I would not know anything about bathing a man."

"And I would not know about an Irish priest who preaches rebellion. But if I am willing, you should be willing."

She fought off a grin. "Are we bargaining about this, then?"

"It would seem so."

"Then I must think about it."

"Dera?"

"Aye?"

"Will you be my wife?"

Her smile broke through. "I told you that I would go anywhere with you, as long as we could be together. I would be proud to be your wife."

"I am not a man given to subtle hints or tactics. If I want something, I say so."

"I appreciate that."

"Then will you do something for me?"

"What?"

"Will you stand up?"

She blinked, looking down at herself in the pot. "But… clearly, I have no clothes on."

"I know. But I just want to see how perfect you are. If that makes you uncomfortable, then you do not have to do it."

Dera sat there, eyeing him. She wasn't sure what to say. As much as she adored the man and wanted to be his wife, there was something in her that was hesitant in making a spectacle out of herself. Perhaps because she didn't want him to think she easily gave over to his fairly lusty demands– not just his, but any man's. She had restraint and dignity, and for the moment, she intended to keep both. It was bad enough that they were alone in a chamber together.

She didn't want him to think less of her.

"If you don't mind, I would rather not," she said.

Something flickered in his expression, as if he just realized his desire had gotten the better of him. Perhaps it was the wine or perhaps it was because he hadn't seen her in nine days. He was so eager to see her, explore her, and know everything about her that he'd made an improper request.

He tried not to feel foolish.

"Forgive me," he said. "I should not have asked. My mother raised me to be more of a considerate man than I have displayed. But you are so beautiful, and I have missed you so, that I could not help myself."

She smiled. "Truth be told, I am tempted," she said. "But when that moment comes for us, and it will come, I would rather it be something very special between us. Not because I'm conveniently nude in a bathtub and you've had more than your share of wine."

"You noticed that, did you?"

She laughed softly. "I saw you pour at least two cups. You've probably had more than that."

He grinned sheepishly. "You may as well know that I can drink to excess sometimes," he said. "Especially when I am weary, as I am now. I will turn my back and you can get out of the tub without my intrusion."

He turned around, facing the table, and Dera climbed out of the tub. She used her old shift to dry off with before donning the heavy white shift she'd brought, just for sleeping. Her wet hair was still tied up in a knot on the top of her head and as she watched the back of Cort's head, she began to soften towards him, just a little.

Big, beautiful, handsome Cort.

He was hers.

In truth, she wanted to explore him, too. She could see his massively muscled arms as the skin reflected the firelight, skin that was smooth and tanned from years spent in the sun. She knew that the man must have women falling all over themselves for him because, surely, such beauty would not have gone unnoticed. She saw the way he'd flirted with Arabella, as tame as it was, but he was a silver-tongued devil when he wanted to be.

But she was the one he'd fallen for.

She could still hardly believe it.

With a smile on her lips, she came up behind him, putting her hands on his broad shoulders. He turned his head slightly, seeing her right hand on his right shoulder, and he brought up a big hand to clasp her fingers. With her left hand, she raked her fingers through his copper-colored hair, acquainting herself with the feel of it. The musky, wildly alluring scent of him. She found herself smelling the top of his head, intoxicated with the scent of the man.

Her hands moved to his arms, feeling his warm skin beneath her palms. Her heart was thumping firmly against her ribs, her excitement nearly more than she could bear. She lifted one of his hands, big and scarred, and rubbed her cheek against it. She heard him groan, but he didn't make a move to grab her. This was her inspection and he was going to let her take the lead.

"Cort," she murmured, rolling the name off her tongue. " Cort. Is that your real name?"

He had his eyes closed, enjoying her touch more than he ever thought possible. "My full name is Cortland Henry Hubert, but I have been called Cort since I was a small lad, ever since I realized how much I hated my full name. My older brothers used to tease me, calling me Cortland, and I would fly into a rage and try to pummel them."

She grinned. "It is not worse than my name," she said. "My full name is Dera Patrick. Can you imagine? If my mother was to name me for a saint, she could have picked a woman– Mary or Margaret or Catherine. But, no ; I had to be named for a man."

Cort flashed his teeth. "Your brother told me that. I have been thinking on calling you Patty."

Her hands moved to his neck, encircling it as if to strangle him. "Do that and you will not live much longer."

He laughed, low in his throat, and she removed her hands, moving back to his shoulders, which were so magnificently broad. In fact, nothing about the man was imperfect. He sat there, his head tilted back and his eyes closed, as she ran gentle hands over him. Now that she'd touched him, it was as if she couldn't get enough of him. She wanted to keep touching him. The man belonged to her.

This English knight.

Her enemy.

Coming around to the front of him, she bent over, depositing the sweetest of kisses on his smooth, warm lips.

The moment she did that, the situation changed.

Cort knew he was lost the instant she latched on to him with her soft mouth. He didn't even try to pull away; he lost himself in her sweet lips, his enormous hands entwined in her hair. He could not have resisted her in any case.

Emotion overwhelmed him.

Cort began to take the offensive, becoming more forceful in his kisses. Perhaps it was the wine or perhaps it was simply his powerful attraction to her. With his mouth fused to hers, he pulled her down onto his lap, cupping her face at first before allowing his hands to roam. Timidly at first, so he wouldn't startle her, but he had every intention of inspecting her as she had inspected him. She was soft and clean and warm, and the shift she wore, though heavy, wasn't heavy enough that he couldn't feel her body beneath it.

And it did nothing to conceal her from his eager hands.

His lips never left her mouth and before Dera even realized it, the sleeping shift had been pushed down around her waist. Suddenly, she was up in his arms and the shift was falling to the floor. Heated kisses rained down on her mouth, face and neck as Cort lay her down on the lumpy bed. It took Dera a moment to realized he was removing his own clothing.

Off came the doublet.

Off came the breeches and boots.

Suddenly, they were both naked.

Cort's enormous body came down on Dera's soft, slender form, enveloping her in power and warmth. His mouth left her lips, devouring her neck as he moved down her body. He tasted every inch of flesh on her shoulders and arms, moving to her chest and suckling lustfully on her swell of her bosom. A big hand fondled her breasts as his lips finally sought her nipples, moving from one to the other hungrily.

Beneath him, Dera squirmed and gasped. Gone were the thoughts of restraint, of not presenting herself as a willing victim to his lust. She wouldn't stand naked in front of the man, but the moment he'd touched her, that changed.

Everything changed.

His weight on her was significant and she instinctively parted her thighs so that his lower body slipped through, his weight partially supported by the bed. He was such a big man that he nearly swallowed her up with his flesh and heat, though his touch was incredibly gentle. It only made her want more. One of his hands moved beneath her to grasp her tender buttocks while the other slipped down her flat belly as his mouth began to move along her abdomen.

The man was moving lower.

Dera was in a haze of desire. It was her first experience with a man, any man, and she was only thinking of her growing love for him rather than of the consequences of their actions. She knew they should not be doing this, but she was selfish in that she didn't care. All she could feel was the adoration she felt for him. When Cort moved lower, grasped her buttocks with both hands, and brought his mouth to bear on her Venus mound, Dera was quite certain that she saw God.

It was the first word out of her mouth.

Sweet Jesú!

God and all of his saints were called upon as his mouth began to work her virginal core. Cort was merciless with his tongue, hearing her cries of passion that fed his lust in a way he'd never known. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that he should not take her in the literal sense, at least not now, but she was so delicious that he wasn't sure he could keep from burying his manhood in her womanly center.

As his tongue licked her into a frenzy, he could feel his lust building. Even when he manipulated her taut little bud of pleasure and felt her body convulse as she experienced her first powerful release, it did nothing to satisfy his own physical need. His enormous manhood was as hard as a rock, throbbing painfully. He could not deny himself the pleasure of knowing the woman he would soon take as his wife.

Lifting himself up, he placed his manroot at her wet, quivering threshold.

Her body against his was the most natural of things. Cort had women in his life, probably more than most men, but not like this. Never like this. No woman he'd ever known had felt so natural against him, an innate sense of being. To take her, to make her his own, was the greatest demonstration he could give her as his feelings consumed him. Slanting his mouth over hers, he lifted her knees and slipped more than half of his long, hard length inside her slick and pulsing passage.

Dera gasped at the sting of possession. She tore her mouth away from his, panting as she became accustomed to the feel of him within her body. But her arms wrapped around his neck, tightening, and she lifted her pelvis to him in a completely inherent move, her body demanding more of him.

Cort complied; his mouth was suckling on her throat and, with a growl, he took hold of her tender buttocks and thrust forward, driving himself to the hilt and listening to her groans of pain and pleasure.

With one hand on her buttocks and another on her breast, Cort impaled her on his phallus over and over, listening to her joyous gasps of pleasure, feeling her body respond to his in a way that suggested she was made only for him. He fit against her like a piece of a puzzle. He resumed his gentle kisses, realizing that she was weeping softly, so he kissed her tears away tenderly. He could feel her body rattle with his powerful thrusts, her soft whispering in his ear that encouraged him onward.

It was heaven.

Even after Cort climaxed, he continued to thrust into her and was rewarded when her body released around him. He could feel her tender walls pulling at him. Still, he continued to move within her, to kiss her, to caress her buttocks and breasts. When it finally ended and the heat died away, he lay there, dazed. Everything about the woman dazed him. It was the beginning of something so magnificent, he could not even begin to comprehend.

Without uttering a sound, he shifted his weight so that he was lying next to her. He collected her warm, naked body up against his in a fiercely protective position, knowing that, come what may, she was his forever and he would defend that to the death.

Even from an irate king.

Tucking her head beneath his chin, he closed his eyes, but she was snoring softly before he even fell asleep.

When he finally drifted off, it was with a smile on his lips.